Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/319

Rh

replied the mistress, with a shine
 * Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed
 * In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread:
 * 'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch,
 * But of its threat she took the utmost heed;
 * Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch,
 * Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch.


 * Writhing her little body with ennui,
 * Continued to lament and to complain,
 * That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be
 * Ravish'd away far from her dear countree;
 * That all her feelings should be set at nought,
 * In trumping up this match so hastily,
 * With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought

Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought.


 * White Provenge rose-leaves with her faery tears,
 * But not for this cause;—alas! she had more
 * Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears
 * In the famed memoirs of a thousand years,
 * Written by Crafticant, and published
 * By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers
 * Who raked up ev'ry fact against the dead,)

In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head.